Not everyone had as wholesome Thanksgiving experience as our freshman columnist. Bwog nightlife correspondent Will Snider narrates the amalgamated stories of his visits home.

Picture it. You're back home on break and enjoying some leftover turkey when the telephone on the kitchen counter rings. Your mother picks it up and hands it to you, a forgotten landline with a nearly forgotten voice on the other end: it's Andy speaking in rapid fire, "Dude, my dad's out of the country for the weekend. Let's get some beer and call some people. I have some great weed. It's so good. It'll be so great. We're home."

You can't believe it. You're sixteen years old again and back in high school. You know what this night will be about: driving up and down Wisconsin Avenue, stopping at several hookah bars and an all-night McDonalds searching for friends. And you'll find them, but you might regret having made the effort. Endless nights of Marlborough Reds, Natty Lite, and poorly rolled joints would make anyone miss 1020.

Nightlife in Washington, D.C. is awful. It's depressingly awful. For adults it's all about the after work happy hour. For the underage it's the quest for an open house, which isn't hard to find when most of your friends' parents work for the IMF, so usually you're set.

This particular party boasts a desperate mix of high school kids and young college students, all pretending to not care about how warm the beer is. You spot a few girls you used to like, and after the freshman fifteen you might actually have a chance. But you've got a good buzz by now, and it doesn't seem worth the effort. They might start to ask you about college and life and how great things used to be. Fuck that.